


disguise

by voksen



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Comment Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-22
Updated: 2009-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:25:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: "The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."</p><p>(a 'try to explain the gluhen character design' fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	disguise

It takes him what feels like forever to catch up to Crawford; he has to deal with the new city, the press of people thinking in warped English, the low strained ache of controlling a crowd's perception. When he tracks him down, he thinks viciously to himself, nothing's going to stop him from digging up exactly what the fuck he was thinking, leaving Schuldig sleeping and going out alone when they're supposed to be working under the radar.

He finally finds Crawford, hours later, by the shape of his mind, the feel of his thoughts, and ducks into an expensive restaurant. His eyes dart from suit to suit, but he comes up with nothing.

A group of older men brush past him on their way out, old money in the clothes and minds of every one. It's annoying, how they think they're better than everyone - than him - and he's about to do something about it just to relieve his frustration when suddenly he recognizes the tilt of a head, the line of a jaw.

 _Crawford?_ he thinks, and shit, now that he's really looking, he can see how it works, the streaks of grey dyed into his slicked-back hair, tinted contacts, slight wrinkles added around his eyes: simple things, but he'd never have known him.

Crawford nods to one of his companions as they walk out the door, saying something - low enough that Schuldig can't make out the words, just the murmuring drawl. _Have the salmon,_ Crawford tells him as the door closes behind him and Schuldig's concentration slips enough that the maître d’ notices him standing there and hurries over with an apologetic smile. _And meet me at the airport at two-thirty._


End file.
